“I’m sure you’re right, Dark High One.”

The Magister pushed his ass back farther on the golden Barcalounger to straighten his back. “Do you have anything else in your toy chest?”

Adept Six set down the box and started going through the other bags inside. “Mostly it’s bits and pieces, so to speak. A class ring. Frank’s Lodge medallion. A few teeth, some with gold fillings. We thought maybe his family might want some of the stuff.”

“Is that all?”

“A couple of things, but this is the most interesting.” Adept Six handed the Magister a folded piece of paper, which, though dry, was stained a rusty red with Frank sauce.

The Magister opened the paper with his fingertips, spreading it out on his lap. He peered at it. “What am I looking at? It’s a flyer for a bake sale.”

“That’s not all, sir. Look at the bottom.”

The Magister’s eyes weren’t what they used to be. He had to squint just to make out the pornographic pastries. “What’s that oatmeal raisin cookie doing to the Bundt cake?”

Adept Six reached over the flyer and pointed to the bottom corner. “Look here.”

The old man’s eyes grew wide.

The Dark High Magister of the Cladis Abaddonis Lodge was one of a long line of priests that stretched back many centuries. The Lodge had been in continuous existence almost since people could scribble on paper. Naturally, as soon as they could scribble shapes, some people didn’t want to let other people see them. Only a special few of their choosing. The right kind of people. And they kicked the ass of anyone who peeked. That’s basically how secret societies were born. The Cladis Abaddonis Lodge had been one of the first and most secretive of these.

Of course, their existence did come to light during the unpleasantness with the Inquisition and they had to disband for a while. The members were just as devout as ever, but they worshipped privately, having seen what the Inquisition did to anyone it considered a heretic—which, at the time, was pretty much everybody. For a variety of reasons, none of them wanted any hot implements shoved up, in, or around any part of their body. They were quiet for almost four hundred years, popping up again in 1835, after the last Inquisitor put his pointy hood in its pointy hood case and tucked it away with the thumbscrews, iron maidens, and other knickknacks of ecclesiastical persuasion.

On one of the few written tests he’d passed, even Frank had been able to guess who had ratted them out to the Inquisition and forced them underground.

Now those bastards were having a bake sale.

“Is this what I think it is?” said the Magister, squinting harder than ever.

“Yes, Dark High One. It’s the seal of the Caleximus cult,” said Adept Six.

“Who?” called Acolyte Three, still staring at the floor.